


Stubble

by thewitcherssongbird



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Flirting, Idiots in Love, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shaving, Sort Of, be gentle I've never done this, what even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22417096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewitcherssongbird/pseuds/thewitcherssongbird
Summary: Jaskier used to have to badger Geralt until he shaved, tired of being scratched by stubble. But today he figures he can do it for Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 344





	Stubble

**Author's Note:**

> Be gentle you guys, I've never written smut before and for some reason this took me 3 whole weeks to finish

Jaskier has found his new obsession and it is something as odd as having the pleasure of shaving Geralt of Rivia.

He used to badger Geralt into shaving regularly, tired of the stubble scratching his cheeks. Until today. Today he had realized that maybe he could do it _for_ him.

Now Geralt is sat shirtless on a chair, so still Jaskier can’t quite can't tell if he's breathing. Jaskier stands between the Witcher’s knees, sleeves rolled up, focused so intently on what he's doing that he’s almost able to ignore the piercing golden gaze on his face. Almost.

He doesn’t look. If he looks, he won't be able to look away.

Gently, so gently delicate artist's fingers lift the Witcher's chin to scrape off the stubble underneath and Jaskier is the _only_ one allowed so close to his throat with a blade. Geralt releases a single breath, his pulse visible just under his skin, noticeably faster than the slow rhythm Jaskier has come to know.

There's something _erotic_ about it,

The way Geralt sits so very still as Jaskier _drags_ the blade across his skin,

The way he _stares_ up at Jaskier,

The way his hands hold him so gently as the _Witcher bares his throat to the bard_ ,

Geralt's hands are on his hips, pulling him just a fraction closer as his thumbs sweep over the dip of his groin. The silence in the room deafening, the darkness of the night has swallowed up all the noise that came with the daily happenings of the town.

Jaskier can feel the golden eyes on him, it feels like they’re piercing his skin, digging deep into his mind and soul and he has never felt so _seen_. Has never felt wanted after baring his soul to anyone.

"Stop staring," he whispers into the quiet.

It's a soft thing, paper-thin in the air between them.

The Witcher doesn't avert his eyes and Jaskier isn't sure he even said anything at all at all. Geralt is looking at Jaskier like he’s something special, like he’s something Geralt wants but can’t have even though they both know he _can_.

The corners of his mouth turn up and Jaskier knows that he heard him. He leans slightly into the palm cupping his cheek as the blade moves over the skin of his adam’s-apple and Jaskier feels _powerful_ with the trust Geralt puts in him, _powerful_ with the very life he knows he holds in his hands, that Geralt is putting in his hands.

The way Jaskier gets to move Geralt around like a puppet, the way he has full control over him this way makes his pulse race and Gods, the way

Geralt

just

_lets_

him.

Jaskier wants nothing more than to strip them both of their clothes, climb onto Geralt’s lap and demand that Geralt take him right here, right now. It’s fortunate he possesses more self-control.

Jaskier doesn’t quite know when it happened, when Geralt came to trust him. It was a slow and subtle thing. From being entrusted with his horse, his belongings when he was elsewhere, letting Jaskier wash his unprotected back, letting him sleep next to him, in a room with him, in a bed with him. Letting Jaskier see him vulnerable, Little things that meant the _world_ to Jaskier because he knows that Geralt is a creature of instincts, instincts to protect himself and what was his. This is what makes it special, what makes it all the more meaningful for Jaskier to be trusted with a _knife_ at his _throat_.

He scrapes off the last of the stubble and leans over to grab the damp cloth on the table behind Geralt to wipe off the excess cream and it brings him closer to Geralt than he’d anticipated. Their lips are inches apart, noses almost touching, Jaskier has made the mistake of letting himself meet Geralt’s eyes. Geralt has captured Jaskier in his golden gaze, snatched up all his attention. He still vaguely tries to make a grab for the cloth.

They’re sharing air and something about that feels _stupidly_ intimate. Jaskier can pinpoint the moment Geralt makes the decision.

Geralt pulls him roughly onto his lap, positioning the bard’s legs on either side of his waist. The way Jaskier settles in his lap comes as naturally as breathing and he instinctively brings his hands to the sides of Geralt’s newly smooth face, cupping his jaw and reveling at the smoothness as he strokes his fingers softly over the skin.

Geralt practically growls as Jaskier parts his lips to allow his tongue entrance, lips moving in a familiar pattern, a practiced dance of pleasure. Their kiss is deep, Jaskier can feel it to his very _core_ as Geralt licks into his mouth and sighs in pleasure. It’s a connection of their deepest beings, transcending anything as simple as physical pleasure and this is what it’s _always_ like with Geralt. It’s something he had never been able to find in another lover and he doubts he could if he wanted to. It’s one of the few things that made him stay.

Geralt’s hands spread over Jaskiers thighs, muscles moving and bunching as he strokes up and down, thumbs coming so close to where Jaskier needs them but always staying just out of reach.

Jaskier moves his hands to Geralt’s upper arms, feeling the muscles tense and relax, his forearms, his back. The Witcher spreads his hands over him like in a way that Jaskier knows. He can’t get enough, can’t fit enough of Jaskier into his palms and the poet thinks he knows _exactly_ what that feels like because he too is frantically roving his hands over Geralt’s arms, his back, his still damp jaw, his _hair_.

They touch and grab at any parts if each other they can reach and Jaskier groans as Geralt’s tongue _does things_ in his mouth, sweeping and licking, teeth biting gently on his lip. He moans softly into Geralt’s mouth and it feels like the blood in his veins is moving _twice_ as fast as usual.

He presses his palms to Jaskier’s sides, kissing, tasting at Jaskier’s jaw now. When Geralt laves his tongue over his pulse point Jaskier’s back arches, legs at the either side of his lover’s torso going tense, his toes only barely brushing the stone floor now. He arches into Geralt who holds him, thumbs feeling at his ribs through his shirt as he sucks a bruise onto Jaskier’s pale neck and now it’s the bard who bares his neck to the Witcher, the prey putty in the hands of the predator.

Geralt mouths at his collarbone, moving his shirt out of the way as if he were unwrapping a delicate gift, slowly and reverently. His fingers unlace the bard’s tunic and only parting his lips from his skin to pull it gently over his head. Jaskier raises his arms in perfect sync with his lover and immediately wraps them back around Geralt’s neck where they belong.

Geralt throws the material on the floor, not caring where it falls and trails his fingers over Jaskier’s exposed skin with a look of utter devotion on his face.

He’s drawing it out, Jaskier realizes. He’s waiting until Jaskier is squirming and begging in his lap, begging just for Geralt to _touch_ him and then he will say, “But I am, little songbird.” And then he’ll make him _say_ it, he always does when he’s in this mood.

Geralt sees when he realizes it, reads him like only he can. But Jaskier isn’t giving up yet and Geralt grins in the way that has Jaskier’s cock jumping, still confined to his pants. He latches his mouth onto one of Jaskiers already peaked nipples and he plays with it, sucks and nibbles and the singer gasps. It’s a game they’re playing, a game Geralt always wins. 

Jaskier’s body is strung tight, he feels like a string on the lute and Geralt is playing him like a master. He whimpers softly and clings to Geralt’s shoulders, holding on for dear life as Geralt raises a hand to toy with his other nipple. He tries desperately to hold on to his pride just a little bit longer.

Jaskier cracks sooner than he’d like to admit. Geralt slides his thumbs just under Jaskier’s waistband, torturing him the way that I so cruel and yet so lovely.

“Geralt.” It’s just a whisper, a breath in the shape of his lover’s name but Geralt stills, waiting. Jaskier threads his hand into Geralt’s hair, snow white and clean from the bath earlier. He leans in touches his forehead to Geralt’s, breathing his air. He closes his eyes, brow to brow with the love of his life. “Please, Geralt.”

“You can do better, little songbird.” It’s the first time Geralt has said anything since Jaskier had sat him down to shave. His voice is rough in Jaskier’s ears. He whines in frustration.

“Please, please just touch me,” he begs. And now Geralt has _won_ but-

But of course Geralt spreads his hands out over his stomach, his chest, his back, his shoulders and anywhere _but_ where he wants them because Geralt is never satisfied unless Jaskier _says_ it.

 _“Darling.”_ Geralt’s voice is purely erotic in his ear, breath tickling at his hair.

“Damn it, Geralt…” It takes him a while, it always does.

“Ask for what you want.”

He sighs, sighs like it’s painful and then there is a moment of silence before, “Touch me Geralt, please just touch my cock. Fuck me, Geralt. I don’t know pin me to the fucking wall or turn me around and bend me over the fucking table, Geralt just fuck me. You _know_ what I want, you know what I _need_.” And Geralt’s name is a mantra in his head, bleeding out of his mouth and peppering his sentences with Geralt, Geralt, Geralt.

Jaskier gasps as Geralt finally slips a hand into his trousers and palms at his neglected cock, relief drowning out his shame, his loss of pride. He whimpers as his lover smooths his thumb over his leaking tip but then he suddenly removes his touch and Jaskier whines pitifully.

Geralt stands up without warning, easily lifting Jaskier with him. The bard wraps his legs around his lover’s waist, his lover who consists mainly of muscle apparently, and steals a kiss, his lips linger. Geralt pins him up against the wall next to the bed and grinds their clothed crotches together. It’s rough and near painful but it’s just what Jaskier needs.

He sets him down only shortly, only to hastily remove his boots and unlace his trousers. When Jaskier is naked and Geralt still in his trousers, the predator lifts him again, presses him to the wall and plunges his tongue back into his mouth. Jaskier can’t help but open his mouth in invitation.

Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s laces, forcing them free and tries desperately to shove Geralt’s trousers away, when he’s panting into Geralt’s mouth with desperation does Geralt take pity and help him. When Geralt is finally free of his trousers Jaskier drags him back, wanting him to pin him to the wall and loving his solid weight. Jaskier mouths at Geralt’s neck, his collar bones and eventually his chest, running his hands over his back.

“Oil,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt hums in agreement and hunts for the oil, he finds it in the bedside table. He slicks his fingers and prods at Jaskier’s entrance. Jaskier whines, “Geralt, please.”

Geralt’s breath is warm in his ear, his voice rough and low with arousal, “Turn around.” Jaskier obeys immediately, he braces his hands on the cold stone, waiting for Geralt. The Witchers fingers linger at his entrance, not quite breaching. Waiting for something, something Jaskier doesn’t know but he grabs Geralt by the hair and turns to kiss him. “ _Please,_ Geralt.” A demand, not a plea.

Finally, finally he presses in a finger and Jaskier moans in pleasure, eyes falling closed. Soon Geralt is speeding up, he adds another finger, scissoring and searching for Jaskier’s sweet spot. When he finds it Jaskier cries out, toes curling, hands forming fists on the wall. Jaskier is ready and he knows that Geralt knows but Geralt presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s spine, a kiss that means

_I love you._

_Thank you for trusting me._

_Are you ready?_

_I love you._

“Yes, God. Geralt please I need it, I need it right now, please.” Jaskier is begging now.

Geralt shudders in pleasure, his fingers slip out, hands grab Jaskier’s hips. Geralt moves to stroke Jaskier’s cock with one hand, the other brushing over his hip.

“Tell me,” he demands softly.

“Geralt,” Jaskier begins immediately, dignity forgotten. “please Geralt, I need you, I need you right now, right now, can’t- can’t take it anymore.”

“What do you want, little songbird?” Again.

Jaskier swallows, “I want your cock in me and I want you to fuck me, the way you know. Just- please Geralt you know exactly what I want, please just do it, Geralt.

Geralt presses a last kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder before finally, finally, he pushes in. The stretch is heavenly and the burn is exquisite. Geralt wastes no time and soon he is seated fully in Jaskier. He stills, giving the bard time to adjust. Jaskier’s hand is clenching and unclenching on the wall, looking for something to hold on to and Geralt places his hand over Jaskier’s. Jaskier laces their fingers together. Geralt’s other hand strokes over his abdomen and it’s not long before Jaskier is squirming again, telling Geralt to _move_.

Geralt obeys his unspoken wish, slowly bottoming out and snapping his hips back in the way he knows Jaskier _loves_. Jaskier’s groan comes from deep in his chest and it soon turns high pitched. Jaskier is near tears because it feels so good, it feels amazing and gods he loves Geralt so much.

Geralt pulls out, turning his lover to face him and immediately wraps Jaskier’s legs around his waist, pinning him back to the wall and pushing in again so fast Jaskier has no time to complain. He thrusts deep into Jaskier with purpose and Jaskier drowned in pleasure.

He buries his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in his scent. Jaskier’s hand finds purchase in Geralt’s hair. Geralt finds a deeper angle and groans in sync with Jaskier at the new feeling. He finds the little bundle of nerves that has Jaskier seeing stars and Jaskier moans loudly into the night. His grip in Geralt’s hair tightens, Jaskier can feel the sound Geralt makes vibrating from deep in Geralt’s chest and escaping his mouth, painting the skin of Jaskier’s neck with pleasure when he feels it’s hum on his neck.

“I’m close, Geralt.” Jaskier’s words are nearly lost in their pleasure.

“Not before I do.” Jaskier emits something close to a sob. It’s as if Jaskier is bound to Geralt’s command, as if it were physically impossible for him to disobey the Witcher. At least now he is. Usually he finds it quite amusing to do the exact opposite of what Geralt says, if only for the pleasure he finds in the consequences.

It’s not long before Geralt releases his seed deep inside Jaskier, he rides out his pleasure, eyes closed in utter ecstasy and gods it feels like a leash has been snapped and Jaskier is released from his vow, he can finally let go. He and paints both their chests in his pleasure.

Geralt is breathing hard, a rare occurrence, his brow rests on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier’s head thunks back to the wall, he stares at the ceiling. Jaskier notices Geralt’s arms starting to shake a little at the effort of holding him up for so long post-orgasm.

“You can put me down now,” he managed between heavy breaths. Geralt, only now realizing this was an option, pulls out slowly. He carries them both to the bed and promptly collapses next to Jaskier who finally takes the cloth and cleans them both up.

“Oh come now, Geralt,” Jaskier chirps, “Is the big bad Witcher tired already? I thought you had more in you.” Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s teasing but it’s muffled by the pillows. Geralt turns his head to face Jaskier. His eyes are barely open but they hold a air of satisfaction.

“How can you be so energetic at this hour?”

Jaskier makes himself comfortable under the sheets and settled on his side, smiling at Geralt. “Well for one, I just had sex with the most desired man in the continent.” Geralt grins lazily, Jaskier figures he is too tired to pretend he’s not amused. “How can _you_ be so lifeless? I mean you just had sex with your favorite person in the whole wide world.” Geralt raised a brow.

“Not lifeless,” Geralt says, “you might have forgotten what I look like when I’m physically _exhausted_ as it happens so very rarely. This is it, by the way.”

“Oh is that so,” Jaskier flirts, “have I, a humble bard, managed to single handedly exhaust _the_ Geralt of Rivia? Do _I_ have more stamina than the famous _Witcher_? I must be very special then.”

They both grin like loons in the hazy light of the candles. Geralt moves quicker than an asp. He straddles the bard. Before Jaskier can even move he has his cheeky lover pinned down under him in a quick maneouvre and Jaskier giggles at Geralt smiling above him.

Geralt Jabs a finger at his naked chest. “Very special you are indeed but do _not_ have more stamina than I do,” he insists, struggling to bite back his smile “ _you_ have been lazing about all day, entertaining people with your lovely voice while _I_ have been hunting monsters all day. And besides I had to do all the work while you just sat back and let yourself be fucked so forgive me for being tired, will you?”

Geralt is smiling in the way he does when he’s in love.

“All the work?” Jaskier demands in mock outrage. “I beg to differ, my dear Geralt because if it weren’t for me you’d still have that _awful_ stubble.” Before Geralt can retort, Jaskier claims his lips in a kiss, swallowing anything he could say.

Jaskier shoves Geralt off him, only because Geralt lets him, and pulls the blanket back over them both. He crawls into Geralt’s embrace, tangling their legs together and gently moving Geralt’s wayward strands out of his eyes. “Sleep you big, dumb Witcher if you know what’s good for you.”

“What does that mean?” Geralt asks, eyes already sliding shut.

“It means get some sleep before you keel over in the middle of the day or I will make you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I have my ways,” Jaskier promises.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do”  
Geralt hums. “I love you,” he whispers, nearly lost to his slumber.

“I love you.”

He isn’t sure if Geralt hears the words but he is absolutely certain that Geralt doesn’t fall asleep without knowing that they’re true.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)) Kudos and compliments are always appreciated


End file.
